In the latter emporium he adds a
bottle of beer to his expense account, endures for a few moments
the bawling above the scream of the piano of two Americans of
Palestinian antecedents, admires some local hero, like "Baldy" for
instance, who is credited with doing what Napoleon could not do,
and floats on, perhaps to screw up his courage and venture into
the thinly-clad Teatro Apolo. He who knows where to look, or was
born under a lucky star, may even see on these merry evenings a
big Marine from Bas Obispo or a burly soldier of the Tenth howling
some joyful song with six or seven little "Spig" policemen
climbing about on his frame. At such times everything but real
blood, flows in Panama. Her history runs that way. On the day she
won her independence from Spain it is said the General in Chief
cut his finger on a wine glass. The day she won it from Colombia
there was a Chinaman killed--but every one agrees that was due to
the celestial's criminal carelessness.
Down at the quieter end of the city are "Las Bovedas," that
curving sea-wall Phillip of Spain tried to make out from his
palace walls, as many another, regal and otherwise, has strained
his eyes in vain to see where his good coin has gone. But the
walls are there all right, though Phillip never saw them;
crumbling a bit, yet still a sturdy barrier to the sea.
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